


Tied to the Ocean

by lordvoldemortsnipple



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Navy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pirates, Slow Burn, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordvoldemortsnipple/pseuds/lordvoldemortsnipple
Summary: The orders were simple: sail to the uncharted waters and recover the treasure the Devil of the Sea has stolen, but the task isn't easy.No one who ventures beyond the Queen's domain lives to chart the way to Captain Lucifer's territory. No one, but a dubious acquaintance Aziraphale has hidden from the Navy for many years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Tied to the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Good Aumens AU Fest, with the prompt pirates!  
> A billion thanks to [@freyjawriter24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24) for the beta work (who is an amazing writer, do follow that link!)
> 
> This was outlined right on the heels of having finally finished Black Sails. All my sailing knowledge comes from it, my long lasting interest in pirates, and the all sailing I did up to around 10 years ago (with lingo in Portuguese, so it hasn't been of much use there)
> 
> The whole fic is planned out, and I'm currently writing the second chapter. I've set it to 4 chapters so far, but it might be 5 in total.

_“When we venture in that unfamiliar sea, we trust blindly in those who guide us, believing that they know more than we do.” ― Paulo Coelho_

  


Aziraphale wakes up with a headache, his mouth dry, and his room tilting. All of these are familiar circumstances, although not usually put together. He doesn’t drink on duty, and if the cabin is moving then they’re already at sea. 

At sea? But just the day before he was sitting in a tavern, that can’t be right.

He sits up, closing his eyes momentarily at the feeling of his brain sloshing inside his skull, but he’s quick to get up, step unwavering as he reaches the window behind his desk, pulling the curtain aside to look out. His hand comes up to clutch at his chest as he looks out to the vast waters. He can’t even spot land over the horizon. Where are they going?

“Ugh, close those off,” comes a raspy voice from behind him. 

Aziraphale turns on his heels, hand going to his waist, but there’s no weapon there. He spots him then, lying on his small couch, legs thrown over the back and the armrest. “Crowley?”

“Yeah, not now, angel.” The man has an arm thrown over his eyes. “Probably shouldn’t have had so much last night. Is the room swaying? It feels...” he gestures a wave motion loosely with his free hand. “Wooshy,” he clarifies. 

“I…” Aziraphale says, moving to his desk, “we’ve set off, I suppose.”

Certain things come back to him. He’d asked Crowley to come aboard his ship for a meeting, in a desperate attempt to gain information and avoid being overheard. Aziraphale knew Gabriel would disapprove of this contact, but he was in dire need of help. His ship had been docked for a month, and the navy wasn’t too fond of the parking bills he had to send their way. Besides, Crowley… Crowley could help, that’s all.

“Right, yeah. Blimey, we drank a lot, why did we drink so much?” Crowley pushes his dark glasses up to his forehead, to rub at his eyes. 

“I believe _someone_ brought wine here,” Aziraphale replies. 

“Yeah,” Crowley croaks out, “and then someone else followed it up with a whole case of _such a lovely vintage_ ,” his voice comes out nasal, almost whiny, “ _you must have a taste, dear._ ”

Right, Crowley had slithered into his cabin, pulling a wine bottle from somewhere inside his dark coat, and waved it at him as soon as Aziraphale had closed the door behind them.

“Heard word of you around,” Crowley had said, sprawling on his couch. “Navy fellow with a white coat, white hair, white, well, everything, going around asking too many questions.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale had kept his eyes away from those long legs, fetching wine glasses, “that’s what happens when one spends an eternity going from pub to pub in search of answers and finding no one willing to provide them.” 

“Good thing I’m willing, then,” Crowley had answered with a sharp grin, as angular as his face.

They had chatted and drunk far too much. Aziraphale remembers at some point relaxing into his desk chair, Crowley propped up on the desk, legs dangling, one pressing warmly against Aziraphale’s thigh. No, he should focus on the conversation.

“It was lovely, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale says pleasantly.

“Smooth as water,” Crowley remarks, moving up into a position that could almost be called sitting.

“Remind me,” Aziraphale reaches the couch. “I’m assuming I was the one who ordered to set sail. Where are we going, exactly?”

“Tadfield, remember?” 

“Tadfield, that’s— Crowley, that’s not where I was ordered to go! You know I must reach Eden.”

Crowley turns his head to look at him properly, his long red hair falling over the side of his face. “Yeah, ‘cept you don’t know where it is, no one does, that’s the whole point of a hideout island, isn’t it?”

“You told me you’ve been there,” Aziraphale insists.

“Only went there once,” Crowley replies, “and my maps are in Tadfield. We need them for your suicide mission.”

“It’s not that at all, Crowley.”

“Your precious navy has sent you in search of the hidden island belonging to Captain Lucifer, the Devil of the Sea,” Crowley says, the way people repeat important lectures, “no fleet, just one ship with what, fifty men?”

“More or less,” Aziraphale says, hands twisting together, “but he’s not supposed to be there, is he? He’s out there doing his wiles. We’re simply going to retrieve what was stolen from our Queen.”

“Right, as if the island is left unprotected,” Crowley scoffs. “You were sent to your death.”

“No one’s forced you to come along, Crowley,” Aziraphale bristles. “You could have written down some directions and gone on your way.”

“I can’t,” Crowley pulls down his glasses, hiding away his honeyed eyes, “bastard stole my ship.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s annoyance drains out, “the Bentley? I’m terribly sorry, my dear.”

“Last time I saw it was there,” Crowley says, “then they kicked me off. It better still be there.”

“I’m sure— well,” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, “when did this happen?”

“Few months ago,” Crowley replies, “tried to get a crew back there, no one wants to go.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Crowley tilts his head so his eyes are visible over his glasses, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Tell you I got robbed by the Devil? What good would that do? Besides,” he turns to look away, “you’ve been busy.”

“We’ll get it back,” Aziraphale assures him, and walks towards the cabin door. “But for now, let’s see where we are?”

“Middle of the ocean,” Crowley guesses, but he gets up anyway.

Aziraphale pores over the table, watching as his first mate uses the compass to measure the distance between the wooden piece symbolizing their ship and the small island of Tadfield marked on the map. It’s just the two of them in the cabin, and the tension is thick.

“If the wind remains steady we’ll reach Tadfield in two days, sir,” Anderson says, putting down the compass. “Beyond that there is no sighted land for at least two months of journey, and all those,” his voice somehow turns even colder, “of course, beyond the Queen’s reach.”

“It wouldn’t make sense for Captain Lucifer to store his treasures in the Queen’s territory,” Aziraphale reasons, hands clasped together over his stomach as he leans back. “We’ll restock in Tadfield before we brave ahead.”

“Tadfield is a small, isolated farming island,” Anderson says, meeting his eye, “populated by outcasts and with low interest to the Crown. Either it will be overrun by pirates, or the locals will welcome our protection. They will not have the means to supply us.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sure we’ll do our utmost to protect the Queen’s territory, then.” Aziraphale nods, brisked up but trying to remain polite. This crew was assigned to him for this mission, and he knows he’s off to a bad start. No one has mentioned it to him yet, but the way everyone quietly regards him is enough of a sign. His first offence was keeping them docked for longer than predicted. The second was then only ordering to take off while drunk, which is an unadvisable first impression. 

“Of course,” Anderson agrees, and his rather whisker-like beard almost seems to puff out, “I do wonder, sir, if it’s a wise move to bring a pirate with us to such uncertain territory.”

The third offence was Crowley, who sticks out like a sore thumb among the crew, with his long red hair, clothes as black as his lenses, a dull, coal colour, dusted gray with use and exposure, very much unlike the white pristine uniforms everyone else on board wears. The trouble with Crowley, really, is that Crowley’s trouble.

“That is an unfounded claim,” Aziraphale says, his tone firm for someone who is very sure that Crowley is indeed a pirate. “Mr Crowley is a guest on board, helping us despite the dangers of facing Captain Lucifer and his crews, and he will not be treated with disrespect, are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Anderson doesn’t sound regretful, but it will do, as long he follows orders.

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

Anderson gives him a nod, and leaves the room. Aziraphale waits a moment, eyes on the map, until he’s sure he’s not going to be interrupted, before he removes his three point hat, gripping it with both hands as he moves to look out of the window.

Two nights until the first stop. He has to make sure nothing goes wrong between Crowley and the crew.

Luckily evening arrives with no further trouble. The skies are clear, the sea steady, and the wind a firm pressure on the sails that keeps them going. Aziraphale sits at his desk, a book in hand, savoring a moment to himself. Or so he intended, before someone walks in.

“Brought you something,” Crowley says, holding up a bowl as he closes the door behind him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale puts down the book, “thank you.”

The bowl is carefully placed on his desk, shoved towards him. “I don’t think your crew likes me very much.”

If the first mate hadn’t said enough, Aziraphale had seen the way the others stared at Crowley when he wasn’t looking. The saddest thing is that he understands. If it were anyone other than Crowley on board he’d be just as suspicious, but he knows Crowley. He has known him since his very first mission from the Queen, decades ago. He also knows that Crowley disrespects the law, even though they never went into specifics on it. The less Aziraphale knows the better. It’s always conflicting in him, knowing this man does wrong, but unable to do anything but treasure his regard. 

Gabriel will find out of course, sooner or later, that Aziraphale brought him in on the mission. They have managed to keep their friendship out of the navy’s sight for the many years they’ve known each other, but he’s on a navy ship, on a mission from the Queen, and Aziraphale knows no one on this crew is loyal to him in particular, but to Gabriel, to the Crown. He should not have set off with Crowley on board, he knows this, but there’s excitement stirring in his chest every time he glances at the other man, and he’s almost giddy thinking of the long journey ahead of them.

He glances down at his desk, in self-assurance. He has precautions set in place. The bowl of stew is in sight once more, and he reaches for it, warmed over as he looks at Crowley again.

“They don’t exactly approve of your presence,” he admits.

“What, it’s not allowed?” Crowley sits on the corner of the desk, one leg resting on it, the other holding him up on the ground.

“Someone of your profession? I wouldn’t think so, no.”

“But it’s not my profession _currently_ , now is it?” Crowley leans closer, a hand on the desk now as well, slowly gaining territory, “can’t do that without my ship. I’m just... providing a service to the Crown.” He makes a face afterwards, as if the argument in his favour leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Besides, what can the crew do? You're the captain." 

"Ah. Well." Aziraphale looks down at the bowl, and brings the spoon to his mouth. 

Crowley straightens up. "You _are_ the captain, right?" 

"I'm the highest ranking officer on board," Aziraphale says, "just not a captain yet."

"You're still just a commander?" Crowley asks, sounding outraged. "Thought you were a captain now, weren’t you getting a promotion last time?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale manages a smile, “Gabriel said—”

“He said you’d get a promotion after that time with the scouts,” Crowley says, his tone sharp. “You didn’t get it?”

“Apparently they didn’t have room for more captains at the time,” Aziraphale keeps his tone polite. “He’s assured me I’ll earn it this time, if I complete this mission up to the standards.”

Crowley scoffs. “Sends you to your death and you think he’ll keep his word this time?”

“You know it’s a miracle for someone of my upbringing to be where I am,” Aziraphale says, “I should just count myself lucky I have this.”

He doesn’t want to stay on this topic. He feels a twist in his stomach every time he remembers that conversation with Gabriel, where he was told that exact argument. Aziraphale isn't in the mood to replicate it now. Besides, he had still been rewarded for his work. 

“In any case,” Aziraphale presses on, before Crowley can insist on it, “how long will it be from Tadfield to Eden?”

Crowley glares at him for a long moment, his gaze heavy even through the lenses he wears. He turns his face to the bookshelves covering the wall of the cabin, the corner of his mouth twisting down. “Have to check the maps, but I’d say a couple of weeks.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, why did you hide your maps? You could have taken them with you.”

“What, so they could get them if I’m captured?” Crowley asks. “Nah, angel. They’re safe and sound where they are.”

Aziraphle cups the bowl with both hands, a sour taste in his mouth. He forces a smile as he faces Crowley again. “Well. They’ll be safe with us too.”

“Sure,” Crowley says, getting up. He stretches out, arms up to the ceiling, his long spine twisting. “Aziraphale.”

“Hm?” he replies, distracted.

“I’m knackered. Where do I sleep?”

“There’s beddings in— ah,” Aziraphale stops, “right, better not.”

“Yeah,” Crowley moves to the couch, “I’m crashing on your couch again, then.”

“You can’t sleep here!” Aziraphale says, glancing at the door. “What will the crew think?”

“That you got very lucky?” Crowley replies, slumping into the couch. “They won’t even notice, relax.” 

“Someone will see you leave the cabin in the morning.”

“I’ve already slept here anyway,” Crowley continues to ignore his protests, removing his glasses. His golden eyes meet Aziraphale’s for a moment, before he turns away to place the glasses on the side table. “It’s too late for that.”

“I suppose you have a point there,” Aziraphale concedes with some relief. He wouldn’t know where to put Crowley otherwise.

“It’s your fault for setting us off drunk. Didn’t even let me get a change of clothes. I’m stealing some of yours tomorrow.”

“Ah, I should have known you would keep to your wicked ways,” Aziraphale returns to his meal. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Terrifying,” Crowley curls facing the back of the couch, red hair spilling around him. “Shut the light when you’re done.”

Aziraphale eats without much care for Crowley’s request. He has known Crowley for long enough to be aware he can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Besides, he does enjoy taking his time with his meals, even if the assigned cook on board is not up to Aziraphale’s usual standards. 

He gets to fall asleep to the sight of Crowley resting peacefully in the same room as him, and when morning comes he’s woken by a complaining Crowley drowning in one of his white shirts. The crew can disapprove of it all they want, Aziraphale is quite pleased with this arrangement.

“Welcome to Tadfield, Captain,” a scruffy man says, giving Aziraphale a bow as he steps onto the dock. He straightens up and salutes him, chin now held high. “I’m R.P. Tyler, founder of the Village Watch. It’s an honor to meet another protector of our Queen’s realm.”

“Oh! Erm, thank you.”

“May I inquire what brought on your visit, sir?” R.P. Tyler asks, still standing on the wooden path to land, blocking it along with his small dog, which sits beside him passively. 

“We’re on a very important mission from the Queen herself,” Aziraphale provides, “we’re stopping for supplies before journeying ahead.”

“We’ll do our best to support your efforts, then,” R.P. Tyler nods, moving aside. “You’ll find there’s no room for— I know _you_ ,” he frowns, looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Hello,” Crowley stops beside Aziraphale, hands clasped behind his back. He does the wide smile he does when he thinks he’s being clever, eyes hidden behind his shades. “Remember me, then?”

“Back already?” R.P. Tyler sounds defensive now. “Didn’t have enough cahoots with those wild witches?”

“Mr Crowley is here with me,” Aziraphale says pleasantly, with a tight smile. “And it’s thanks to him I’ll be able to inform the Queen of your support for the Crown.”

“You keep an eye on him, sir,” R.P. Tyler warns, finally letting them pass. 

“Don’t worry,” Crowley slithers past him, “he’s already on it.”

Aziraphale had set some of the crew off with instructions to buy supplies, so he’s free to wander with Crowley. Tadfield appears to be the picture of a small coastal village, with people busy working in shops facing the sea, a few sailors strolling the main road, children running around, seagulls laughing from the skies above.

“Sorry, sirs!” a golden haired boy yells as he passes between Aziraphale and Crowley, not slowing his step.

“Adam, wait up!” 

Aziraphale and Crowley both stop as three other children run past them, chasing after the first boy at different paces. One trips on his own feet right beside Crowley, hurrying his step afterwards to catch up. “Wait for me!”

Aziraphale turns to watch where they’re heading with such hurry, and his gaze trails over R.P. Tyler who is holding his dog under his arm and yelling at the children to stop.

“Apparently he doesn’t trust you to keep an eye on me,” Crowley comments casually.

“I’m sure he’s just walking his dog,” Aziraphale says, who had been aware of him ever since they left port. “Is this all distrust for you or do you think he’s interested in the maps?”

“The maps aren’t here.” Crowley dismisses it, looking over his shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale moves closer, “Crowley, we came here—”

“Yeah, yeah, quieter, angel,” Crowley lowers his voice, “they’re on the island, but not _here_ here. We have to go further in, to the woods.”

"Crowley!" Aziraphale admonishes him, his heart still hammering over the scare. "You should have said that first! Shall we go then?"

"After we lose our tail," Crowley says, and as he grins, Aziraphale can't help but to grin back.

They've done this before, a few years back, four, maybe six? He's not sure anymore. They were on the many islands that form the Queen’s territory, having bumped into each other when they were both on mission, and Crowley's... work accomplices had decided to have a few words. They had a few drinks already while catching up, so it didn't take much for Aziraphale to agree to continue their conversation at the inn Crowley was staying at. They had run through the cobbled streets of Paraios, turning corners and doing their utmost to not spill their wine as they sneaked around. It's a memory he's shameful of, an officer parading drunk in the streets while running from criminals. But Crowley had grinned the whole time, and as soon as they were secure behind the door of his room they had collapsed into laughter, shoulder to shoulder as they pressed against the door, hands over mouths to muffle the sounds of their mirth.

At least they're not drunk this time around, as they move closer to the walls of the buildings, taking turns in unfamiliar streets. They have that disadvantage to R.P. Tyler, who clearly watches over the paths regularly.

“Left,” Crowley says, and they turn the corner into the empty street. Ten paces later and R.P. Tyler is joining them as well.

“He’s not very discreet, now is he,” Crowley remarks. Behind them the dog R.P. Tyler carries is barking.

“I’m sure he’s trying his best,” Aziraphale replies, and touches Crowley’s elbow. “Right?”

“Right, I suppose, though that’s rather sa—” he stops at Azirpahale’s look. “Yeah, right, turn right.”

They turn into another street, lined with small houses. It’s empty but for the four kids that had run by them earlier on. The four are talking in a circle, heads bent together.

"Hey, you. Kids, children," Crowley calls over, as they get closer.

"Grownups," the girl of the group replies, crossing her arms as she turns to them.

"My friend will give you a coin if you run down to the docks again," Crowley says. 

“We’re on a secret mission,” the blond boy says, “if we go down there it will take ages to recover our trail!”

"And actually,” another boy, this one with glasses, speaks up, “there's four of us! We can't split a coin."

"I only need one of you rascals to run any--"

"How about this," Aziraphale says, "how about I give each of you a piece of paper?"

"What do we want paper for?" the boy who had tripped earlier asks. His knees are now scrubbed with dirt.

" _What do_ \- paper is precious!" Aziraphale lets out, scandalized. 

"Hand one out," Crowley asks, motioning with a hand.

Aziraphale looks at him with suspicion, and takes his journal out of his coat's pocket, opening it by the end and carefully removing an empty page.

"Here," Crowley says, and quickly starts creasing the paper.

"Crowley! What on earth are you--"

"See?" Crowley holds it up, bent to be a pointing arrow. "It's a bird now, watch." With that, he throws it forward in the air, and the six of them watch the paper glide over a few feet before landing on the ground.

"That's amazing!" the golden haired boy says, eyes wide, a charming smile on his face, "can you do more? We'll take the deal!"

"Er, we're a bit in a hurry," Crowley says, looking over them to the end of the street, "but you can learn from the one I made already."

"There you go," Aziraphale removes three more pages, handing them over to the boy in spectacles, who seems the least dirty of the lot.

“Be as loud as you wish,” Crowley advises, stepping backwards away from them.

“Do have fun,” Aziraphale adds.

The kids waste no time to pick up the paper bird and run away, screaming war cries that echo over the streets over the sound of their footsteps.

“Adam Young!” R.P. Tyler is heard after them “Don’t you think I won’t tell your father about this!”

“Come on,” Crowley nudges him, a grin in his voice, and they quietly move in the opposite direction, out of the village.

“Couldn’t have let your maps in a more convenient place, I suppose?” Aziraphale asks minutes later, as they cross an orchard, walking towards the woods.

“Reckon it’s rather convenient that it’s hard to find,” Crowley replies, lowering his dark hat over his head to shield himself from the sun bearing down on them.

Still," Aziraphale says, thankful for his own hat, and his white coat which protects him from the heat.

"Yeah, well-- hang on," Crowley stops, changing directions and going into the orchard.

"Crowley, are we lost?"

Crowley stops by the closest tree, and Aziraphale crosses his arms. "Did you hide the maps in an apple tree?"

"What?" Crowley is jumping around to reach the branches. "Why would you think that?"

"I have no idea how I've come up with such a theory," Aziraphale replies, moving to at least wait in the tree's shade. "Did you get it?"

"Here!" Crowley gets himself back on the ground with a thud, and returns to him, holding something in his arms. "Come on."

"What did you-- oh Crowley," Aziraphale stops mid sentence, as he's presented with an apple. "Did you just steal an apple?"

"It's nostalgic, isn't it?" Crowley shakes it a bit. "Go on, take it."

"You shouldn't steal, Crowley," Aziraphale says, taking the apple and rubbing it clean on his arm, "I should have you arrested."

"Yes, this is a terrible crime," Crowley says, leading them back onto the path, "I should hang for this."

"We both know that's not the punishment for this crime," Aziraphale says, taking a bite. The apple is crunchy, and its juices run down his chin before he dabs it out with the end of his sleeve. "Thank you, dear."

"I’m just leading you down the wicked path," Crowley says, "and we forgot to pack lunch."

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale agrees, in high spirits now that he has the flavour of Crowley's attentiveness in his mouth, "I'm being tempted."

"Damn right." Crowley bites into his own apple.

The pathway to the woods is easier with the illegal fruit settling in their stomachs, and soon enough they're protected from the heat, hidden beneath the branches of the tall trees. Everything seems quieter in these woods, but it is not abandoned. They're following a path of dirt, man made, which bends between elder trees, leading them further in.

"Almost there now," Crowley nods.

"Did you bury it somewhere?"

"No, I-- ah, there it is," Crowley points to the side of the path.

Hidden between the trees is a tall, stone building, which manages to blend with the environment due to the weeds growing along one of the walls. They change their paths towards it, and to Aziraphale it becomes immediately clear what they're facing.

"This is a house of worship," he says, surprised.

"You studied in one, didn’t you?" Crowley replies, watching him with some concern.

"I was raised in one," Aziraphale simply says, something twisting in his stomach as he gazes up at the building eerily similar to the one he had been raised in as an orphan, many decades before. Being an only child in a praying house had been an unique experience.

“Better than the streets, I suppose,” Crowley says, not sounding like he means it at all.

“Have I told you I once thought I’d live there forever?” Aziraphale asks him. “I thought I’d become a man of prayers, as those who raised me were.”

“What happened?” Crowley’s eyes are aimed at him behind his glasses, Aziraphale can feel his gaze, can guess the care hidden by the lenses.

“The house had… some issues, and I was recruited for the Queen’s service in exchange for a boon,” Aziraphale says. “Suddenly there was a whole world beyond the prayer house. And the sea, I had never seen the ocean before! Is there anything as freeing? If I were not taken into the navy, I could have gone a whole life without ever knowing it. Without...” he catches Crowley’s eyes, his heart racing, and he can’t let out the words he means to say. “...without so many pleasures in life. My books...”

“The fine wine,” Crowley leans a little closer.

“And I suppose I also wouldn’t know your wickedness,” Aziraphale says, lifting his chin. “Sheltered as I was in a house of good.”

Crowley lets out a noise that sounds the mixture of a snort and puffing out. “You didn’t need me to be _wicked_ , angel, remember how we met? Young officer Aziraphale, guard on duty. Pretty sure that was meant to keep people in. And yet...”

“They had taken an apple,” Aziraphale says, feeling eighteen again, standing in the dark by the eastern gate, defending his choices to a striking stranger, unknowingly laying the foundations of their friendship, “and she was expecting! Couldn’t let them have the child in prison, now could I? All those vicious people in there. Besides,” he says, tone more even, “I didn’t see anything. They certainly didn’t leave by _my_ gate.”

“Sure they didn’t,” Crowley smirks just as he had back then, before he had led the poor couple to freedom. “ _Mind how you go_ , you said. Never heard a guard so polite to his fugitives.”

“Guarding that gate was my first task for the navy and,” Aziraphale stops, “you know what, that’s not relevant. I’m sorry, I’ve delayed us with all of this reminiscing. You didn’t want to hear all this nonsense about my childhood.”

“Didn’t say that. ’s different from mine.” Crowley leans off. “Come on.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, who knows enough not to ask about it. “You must have seen the whole world from the start.”

“Perks of a street rat,” Crowley agrees, walking towards the front door.

"So which worshippers reside here?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley knocks on the door with the back of his hand. "Didn't our noble village watcher tell you? Witches."

"Crowley, you're not fooling me. This is not a house of witches."

"They could be," Crowley defends himself, "you don't know what they get up to here, all alone in the middle of the woods."

The door opens, and a dark skinned woman in black robes peeks out. "Oh, Master Crowley! Welcome to the Chattering Order."

"Always a pleasure. Are you letting us in?"

"Of course! Come on in!" she steps aside, opening the door even further to let them pass. "It's been ages since our last visitor, but we weren't expecting you so soon!”

"I wasn't either," Crowley moves in.

Aziraphale follows him inside. The front hall of the praying house is cool, the stone protecting them from the weather outside. The walls haven't been covered up, as some places do with tapestry, but there are wooden benches to ease the aura of a waiting room. "Good day to you, madam."

"And to you, good sir," the woman smiles. "It is a rather pleasant day, isn't it? The sun is shining, and I got to collect raspberries today! We'll have jam later, you should stay to have some!"

"Raspberry jam!" Azirpahale turns to Crowley with a smile, delighted.

"We need my maps first.”

"You're right," Azirpahale nods, "while we study them, then."

"Your maps?" the lady asks, with some confusion. “Oh, the maps! Oh no.”

“What?” Crowley asks.

“Master Crowley, we don’t have them anymore,” she says with some distress, “a pirate came in, he knew we had it, he… he killed Mother Superior, he was going to burn us all to the ground!” She’s close to tears now. “We had no choice, do forgive us.”

Crowley appears to be frozen still, his face impassive, so Aziraphale squares up, bites down his own dismay, and speaks. "I'm terribly sorry for what happened, madam. Is everyone else alright?"

"Yes, he just left after getting it," she says, her voice wavering. "He said we did well, or he would have burnt the whole island."

"You've done your best," Aziraphale says soothingly. "Is there anything about him in particular you can remember?"

"Yes," she nods, eyes glittering as she holds back her tears, "he was...very pale, even his hair. He had scars on his face and... and a frog tattoo on his arm."

"Hastur," Crowley hisses out.

Aziraphale steps back, heart hammering in his chest. "Thank you for your help, madam. We should be on our way."

"You could stay for tea," she insists, with a shaky smile, "it's the least we can do."

"It's much appreciated, but we really must be going now," Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the elbow, and leads him back towards the door. "Have a good day."

They leave, letting her close the door behind them as she apologizes again. 

"Well," Aziraphale says, trying to remain calm. "You've lost the map. To one of Lucifer's Demons." 

Captain Lucifer's fame comes not just for his own horrifying deeds, but for the ones that belong in his fleet. If Lucifer is known as the Devil of the Seas, then the captains working under him are his Demons, men just as vicious, just as cruel, just as set to fight against the Queen's regime to bring chaos to the land, each of them famously branded with an animal on an arm. Aziraphale never had the misfortune of dealing with one of those, but his luck seems about to run short.

" _We've_ lost the map," Crowley replies, seemingly cooler.

"A map has been lost," Aziraphale says, doing his best to not roll his eyes. "It was very inconveniently hidden indeed."

"Shut up," Crowley lets out. 

"We can assume the Demon burned them, to protect his master."

"Nah," Crowley says, "Hastur wouldn't do that. He'd miss the chance to find his own way back. Bastard might use them to make a move for himself."

"And how would you know that?" Aziraphale asks.

"I, er, I've run into him on work, often enough," Crowley says, crossing his arms, "and he was the one who took me back from Eden when they stole my ship."

"Do you know where he might be, then?"

"I've got an idea," Crowley says, taking off his hat to run a hand through his hair.

"Well. Then let's return to the village, have some lunch and discuss our next step."

"Yeah," Crowley puts the hat back on, secures the position of his lenses. "Come on. I know just the place."

“The fish is scrumptious,” Azirpahale hums, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief.

“Figured you’d like it,” Crowley isn’t paying attention to his own meal, but Aziraphale has never known him to enjoy more than enough to get by. Must be an old habit, and Aziraphale’s attempts to push him into indulgence haven’t worked much so far.

"So, where do you think this Demon is?"

"I don't know exactly where he's gone to now, do I?" Crowley leans back in his chair, arm thrown over the back. "He's at sea, I bet."

"That much I could have guessed myself," Aziraphale replies.

"Excuse me, hi," comes a voice from the side.

A young lady stands before their table, holding up a book in her hands. She's tall, with long brown hair, and round spectacles on her face. There's something off about her, but she seems nice enough as she waits for their reply.

"Hello, can we help you?" Azirapahle asks politely.

"You're the not-captain looking for a map, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She sits down on the chair between theirs, opening the book on the table and turning pages. "I have a message for you. To help you find the Demon."

"And you are?" Crowley asks, eyebrows high on his forehead.

"Right. Anathema Device," she holds out a hand for Crowley, and when he doesn't move to do the same, she turns to Aziraphale. "Witch," she adds, when his hand is in hers.

"Oh. Professionally?" Aziraphale asks in his most neutral tone, hand returning to grab his fork.

“Occasionally. I’m a professional descendent.” She’s back at the book, turning pages.

“How quaint,” Aziraphale shares a look with Crowley. 

“Is that profitable?” Crowley asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“When you’re good at it,” she replies with a tight smile.

“How may we help you?” Aziraphale asks.

She glances up at him. “I’m the one helping you. You’re looking for a path, aren’t you? You’re chasing Demons.”

Aziraphale nods at Crowley’s look, frowning. “And how do you know this?”

“My great-great-great-great-great grandmother was a Seer-”

“A Seer!” Aziraphale interrupts, delighted.

“Here we go,” Crowley mutters, looking away.

“Yes,” Anathema nods, “she wrote The Nice and Accurate-”

“Prophecies of Agnes Nutter?” Aziraphale perks up in his seat, a grin blooming in his face. 

She turns the book towards them, “I believe this one is about you.”

Aziraphale gasps, leaning in to read it. Crowley seems unable to hold back his own curiosity, placing his elbows on the table as he twists forward to read as well from the old book, printed in yellowing pages with an uneven type:

_**3008.** The manne 'i whyte whom's not yet captain and hif slithering companion shalle brow theire Demons where the travelling lamp doth not set, and at the croak of the frog a path is discovered. Open thine eyes and hie, I do say, foolish commander, for thy fish doth grow cold._

“Agnes Nutter is said to have written only entirely true predictions,” Azirapahle says reverently, a hand reaching to the book, fingers hovering over the page, not daring to touch. “But with only one copy of the book, no one has seen it in centuries.”

“No one but her descendents,” Anathema says. “It might not be about you, but it seems to fit.”

“The frog bit seems odd if not,” Crowley says, not sounding entirely sold. “But what’s the travelling lamp?”

“We think it’s the sun,” she says, pulling back the book to her lap. “What is the frog? We haven’t managed to understand it.”

“A Demon,” Aziraphale says. “Where the sun doesn’t set? Where could it be?”

“Ah, of course,” Crowley groans, falling back in his chair, “I know where that is. There’s an island, to the southwest, where he and Ligur… we can get there.”

“You know a lot of demons,” Anathema says calmly, eyes on Crowley.

“They stole his ship,” Aziraphale says abstently, still thinking of the text, “ _hie for thy fish grow cold._ Perhaps they’re the fish, and we’ll lose our trail if we don’t hurry.”

“You haven’t finished your lunch,” Crowley says, pointing at his plate with a nod of his head.

“Ah, of course!” Aziraphale turns back to his grilled fish, quickly taking a bite. The meal is now lukewarm, which would be disappointing if not for what caused the delay. “Southwest… we don’t have any charted maps from here on out, it’s why we needed this one.”

“Yeah, few go beyond the Queen’s realm,” Crowley leans back again in his chair. “Fewer return. And if any of those is brave enough to chart it... the Devil makes sure they regret it.”

“You’ve done it,” Aziraphale says, looking up from his meal at him.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley gives a one shoulder shrug, “he stole my ship to get them, didn’t he? Should have known better.”

Aziraphale nods, and returns to his meal, pulling out fishbones. “We know there are some small islands southwest from here. But there are no records of the exact location. They’re rumoured to be too small to inhabit.”

"They are," Crowley agrees, crossing his arms, "too small for society, but not for one crew to rest periodically." 

“I suppose it could be conveniently close to the borders, while remaining hidden away.”

“Yeah,” Crowley looks at him approvingly, “especially if said island was hidden away with mist.”

“Where the sun doesn’t set,” Aziraphale looks at him, eyes widening. “That’s where they are?”

“That’s where I’d guess from this,” Crowley says, nodding towards the book. His eyes lift to Anathema. “Why give this to us?” he asks her with a casualness Aziraphale doesn’t buy.

“Because Agnes shared it,” Anathema says, blinking at him. “She did it for a reason.”

“And you just do whatever you think she wants you to?” Crowley asks.

“You sound just like Newton,” Anathema pulls the book to her chest. “She’s never led us astray. And if you’re fighting Demons, then you need all the help you can get. We could do without their raidings.”

“Do they come often?” Aziraphale asks with some concern.

She shrugs, “I haven’t lived here for long, and I’ve seen them around a few times. They were here a month ago.”

“This was fun, but I’m off,” Crowley gets up. “Gotta buy a few things before we leave.”

“I haven’t finished my meal, dear,” Aziraphale looks down at his plate, and then at Crowley, surprised by his abruptness. “Wait a moment.”

Crowley seems to waver, “I’ll meet you at the docks, angel. We don’t have time to lose.”

“Oh,” Anathema lets out quietly, looking between them.

“Ciao,” Crowley waves at them in a loose salute, stuffs his hands in his pockets and leaves the pub.

Aziraphale stares at the door he left through for a moment, shaking off his disappointment. They’re going to be sailing for a while longer, they don’t have to be in each other’s company the entire time.

“Captain. Not Captain.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale turns to the side, remembering he’s not alone. “Aziraphale, please.”

“Are the two of you…”

“Oh. We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“I see,” she says calmly.

Aziraphale feels like squirming, suddenly uncomfortable in his chair. He doesn’t know how else to explain it, he never had to before. Their friendship is a secret he has kept for decades. He puts down his fork, picking a napkin and dabbing it at his mouth, not in the mood to eat after all. “Why do you ask?”

“I have another message from Agnes for you,” Anathema tells him, her tone somber. She opens the book towards the end, muttering under her breath as she finds the correct page. “Here,” she says, turning the book towards him, finger pointing at the prophecy in question.

Aziraphale leans to read the text properly, a frown growing on his face. He goes over it twice in silence, trying to make sense of what he’s reading, but none of it appears to be a good omen. Something seems trapped in his throat, hard to dislodge as he swallows dry, not knowing what to do with this new information as he stares at the text.

_**5004.** Anathema, ere the angel sails aroint, say to him he must choofe whom he trusts wisely, for soon enouff he shalle be playing with fyre._


End file.
